Bearing Witness
by Stuckinmycocoon
Summary: One shot (for now anyway). Chloe-centric prequel. I imagine this happening at some point when Chloe is in high school. This is my take on what inspired Chloe to ignore all boundaries. Some mature content dealing with topics of self injury and suicide (not detailed, no death). If you're easily triggered, though, be warned.


_Author's note: This is a little something I thought up earlier today. You may notice that there's a similar story on my page, but I've adjusted it. I originally thought it might be a crossover, before I decided against doing that. I felt like it would work here. Let me know. It's my first Pitch Perfect fanfiction, but I've been reading them for a while. Read and review, please!_

_Disclaimer: This story belongs to me, but Chloe does not._

_Synopsis: One shot (for now anyway- let me know what you think!). Chloe-centric prequel. I imagine this happening at some point when Chloe is in high school, years before the Barden Bellas and the events of Pitch Perfect, but existing in the same universe. This is my take on what inspired Chloe to ignore all boundaries. Some mature content dealing with topics of self injury and suicide (not detailed, no death). If you're easily triggered though, be warned._

**-Line break-**

I took a walk the other night, and something unexpected happened. I like walking at night; there are less people around, the stars smile at me, and I can blend into the darkness. There's nobody around watching me, demanding that I interact, forcing me to speak. I decided to take the bridge path, even though it requires walking on the sidewalk of a busy road, because I like heights. I like being up on high and watching the world. It's easier to watch than to take part; you can't make mistakes by watching. But it seems that night I was not the only lover of heights. There was a girl, about my age, about my size, with red hair like me, dressed in a dark hoodie like me. She could have been me. And she was hanging on the bridge supports, over the edge of the railing, and I wondered if she just liked heights or if she was thinking about jumping. I knew I should do something, say "Hi" perhaps, or ask, but I felt the paralyzing grip of my social anxiety taking hold and my little-used voice flew away on the wind and I didn't know when I would ever get it back. It wasn't the first time it flew away; I doubted it would be the last. I was frozen in place with fear and indecision, and all I could do was bear witness, hidden in the shadows of a support truss just feet away, silently cursing myself and my disease in case I was the only one who could help this girl who could almost be me.

But I was not only one around that night, and a police car pulled up. He had eyes only for her, and he called out, "Don't do it. Don't jump."

She didn't even turn, but she answered him. "I wasn't going to." And I breathed a sigh of relief. My inability to speak, to communicate, would not result in someone's death. At least, not tonight.

"Then what are you doing, miss?" The cop asked.

"I was thinking of jumping, but this isn't high enough. I want to experience flight before I die, real human flight, not caught inside some big-bellied metal beast of an airplane. And I know that gravity will pull me down at a rate of 9.8 meters per second squared, which would give me less than 4 seconds to fly. That's really not enough to make it worth my while."

"Please come back from the edge."

"Why should I? And don't come any closer, or you may frighten me and I'll lose my grip and fall. I'm weak anyway; I haven't eaten in three days."

"I want to help you."

"Why? Why do you want to help me? Why do people only start to care when you threaten to take your own life? Why didn't anybody care about how I was, how my life was, before this moment, the moment I'm thinking about ending my life? If my life was that damn important, why didn't anyone care before now? Only now, when I'm on the edge of an abyss, considering letting go and falling in, does anyone even bother? We go through life pretending to care about other people. Every conversation starts with "How are you?", but it's meaningless. It's just some insincere social custom. Everybody always answers the same way - "I'm fine", you say. It doesn't matter if you've just had the best day or the worst, because you know that they don't give a shit about you and you don't give a shit about them. Why do we even bother to ask anyway? Better not to ask, I say, better not to pretend, because at least you're being honest then, and better to wait and use the words when they actually mean something."

"Well, how are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks," she answers with a sarcastic bite to her tone.

"That's not the answer I was looking for," the cop replied. "I'm asking because I care."

"I don't even know you. Why the hell do you care?"

"Does that matter? I do."

"Does it matter if a stranger cares about you more than the people in your life do? The people who are supposed to love you unconditionally, but who toss you out on your ass the minute you stop biting your tongue and show yourself for who you really are? It should matter, but I suppose it doesn't really. After all, you're just going to try to get me off the ledge, and then into a psych hold in some hospital, and then you can pat yourself on the back for saving some crazy chick and not having to scrape blood off the rocks below tonight. Well, news flash, dude, not interested. Not interested in going to some place where they'll put me on drugs so I can't feel or think clearly anymore, where more people I don't know tell me they care about me, and then they'll 'cure' me and send me on my lonesome way until I find a height that will give me more than 4 pitiful seconds to fly."

"This may be hard for you to believe right now, but there are people who truly care. Surely, there's someone in your life who's in your corner right now?"

"Try again. Caring is conditional, conditional on you fitting someone else's mold of you, someone else's expectations. Take you, for example. Maybe you do care, but only so long as you believe me to be suicidal and your problem. Once I'm not anymore, you'll be done here and on to the next crisis. Just another day's work. Once I broke free of the life I hated, I broke everybody's expectations of me. I was not longer the perfect daughter, sister, girlfriend, student, friend, whatever. And nobody knew what to do with the real me. If they did, I would've gotten more sleep than cat-naps on city buses over the last week because I was scared about what would happen if I fell asleep. I would have eaten in the last three days. And if I had someone in my corner, someone who could accept me for me, I might not even be here. But then again, maybe I would. Who knows really? I can fulfill a dream before I die, and I'd like to achieve just one dream in my life."

"You're young, you have many years to achieve many dreams. When you're old, and grey, and arthritic, and dying, and you still have this desire to fly, do it then. Not now. Not when you have so much potential."

"People always talk about potential. But what if all you ever have is potential? What if you can never do anything with your potential, that nobody ever recognizes it in you and are willing to give you a chance to develop it? It's not like most employers look for potential. No, they look for someone who can fit a mold, someone who has a certain set of desired skills, talents, and characteristics. More molds. At some point, they'll be able to mass produce humans in factories like superhero figurines, and people can order up exactly what they want or need."

"So, what you're saying is, that individuals don't matter?"

"We are what other people believe us to be, what they judge us to be. If she speaks her mind, she must be a bitch. If he likes theater, he must be gay. If she's got good grades, then she must be a nerd. If he's white and from the South, he must be white trash, but if he's black, then he must be in a gang. If she's thin, she must have an eating disorder, but if she's overweight, she must have a problem with self-control. If he doesn't like being part of a big group, he must be anti-social. If she's blonde, she must be a stupid ditz. If he's Arab, he must be a terrorist, and if he's Irish, he must be an alcoholic. If she's a girl, she must suck at guy sports. If he's a democrat, he must not believe in taking responsibility. If she's bisexual, she must want to sleep with everyone she sees. If he wears black, he must be goth or emo. If she's a tomboy, she must not have any female friends. If he's a jock, he must not have any brains. If I'm on a bridge, I must be suicidal. If I'm a person, I must be stereotyped. I must fit into a little box with a label on it so somebody else's brain can rest a little easier knowing that they 'figured me out'. We label people all the time, trying to fit them into molds and boxes, and we never really try to get to know them, because who wants to take the time doing that? It's not simple; it's messy, and complicated, and confusing."

"And if he's a police officer, he must..." the cop trailed off. I expected he wanted the girl to answer.

She did. "...he must either want an excuse to carry a gun and be violent or have some kind of savior complex. Or both. With you, I'm guessing it's the savior complex." She gave an ironic laugh. "But I've been known to be wrong before."

"No, you're right. I don't know if I'd term it a savior complex precisely, but, honestly, ever since I was little I wanted to be a cop so I could fight off the bad guys and save the day, like the superhero cartoons I used to watch. Being a cop is a lot different than what I thought it would be – I mostly give out traffic violations – but occasionally I get to be the hero and that makes my day."

"So, I'm just another damsel in distress? Superman's going to swoop in to save the day?"

"Superman is not. For one, this Superman can't fly – fact is, he doesn't even like heights, – and for another, he learned that the damsel has to want to be saved from the bad guy. And that usually she can get out of her situation herself, maybe with the occasional ass-kicking help from your friendly neighborhood cop."

"Is that right? Well, congratulations. There's hope for you yet. You're probably on your way to enlightenment. I'll let Buddha know to keep an eye out for you when I meet him. Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure thing."

"Have you ever done this before? Talked to someone hanging off a bridge?"

"Actually, no. But I've had what we call 'crisis training'. And in fact, there's a crisis negotiator heading this way right now. You were called in, so he'll come and talk to you."

"I don't want him. I'll keep you, thanks. I don't want anyone else around."

"You are beginning to collect a crowd."

"Why are people so fascinated with the idea of suicide jumpers? It's kind of macabre, isn't it?"

"We were taught that when people threaten to jump, what they are actually demanding is that society sends someone to talk to them. That they've been trying to tell you all along that they've had a problem, but no one paid attention. Is that how you feel?"

"We kind of covered this already, didn't we? How people only start to care when you threaten to take your life?"

"Have you tried to talk to anyone about these feelings before?"

"Emotions weren't appropriate in my household. 'Feelings aren't real' is what I was always told. So I dealt with it my own way."

"How?"

"Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, right? When you're sitting on the each of a bridge, even though it's not the one you want to jump off of, talking to some random cop who pulled up, no offense, there's really no point to keeping secrets anymore. I coped by cutting myself. I know, I cut myself so I must be emo, or perhaps just crazy. And you're probably thinking, if she's into knives, why doesn't she just slice her wrists, go quietly and save us all this trouble?"

"That's not exactly what I was thinking, but go on..."

"I didn't cut to die. I cut to live, to breathe, to cry, to feel alive. I cut the words for my emotions into my skin so I'd have proof they were real. I cut out of love, crazy as that may sound, not out of violence. I wasn't going to ruin that by using it to kill myself. Besides, if I did, how could I fly?"

"There are other ways of flying, you know."

"What, airplanes? That's not flying free on the wind, that's transportation."

"I was thinking more along the lines of something like hang gliders. A friend of mine offers lessons; I could introduce you if you want."

"That might be interesting; I'll consider it if I don't find my perfect place to die right away."

"Life does get better. It may not seem that way right now. But it does."

"That's what everybody says. But what everybody says isn't always true."

"Maybe. But, as you said yourself, you tried so hard to keep yourself alive, to breathe, to live. Why give up now?"

"Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I just want to be free. Free as a bird on the wind."

"You could jump off the lip of the Grand Canyon and still not be free as a bird on the wind. You'd, as you said yourself, would attain a downward acceleration of 9.8 meters per second squared until you hit the bottom."

"As they say, it's not the fall that kills you, it's the hitting the ground. Look, I'm not an idiot. I know gravity exists and all that, but I still have this dream of being free, carried by the wind, up to the stars, and to lay down on a bed made of clouds. Science may not agree, but I can't shake the feeling."

"There are other ways of flying. Ways that might get you closer to your dreams. Aren't they at least worth trying out before you give up your life forever in pursuit of something you intellectually won't come true?"

"That's actually logical." The girl sounded a little shocked. "As I said before, there's hope for you yet. At least you got away from the stupid canned answers, and now you're actually thinking, and responding. Look, honestly, we've already covered the fact that this is not the bridge I want to jump off of tonight. So, if I did come back over, would you still have me put under a psych hold?"

"Since we're being honest, I won't lie. Yes, I would. You've made a suicidal gesture, and you're indicated intent in the near future. Protocol dictates that you undergo at least a 72 hour suicide watch, speak with psychiatrists and psychologists, and get help overall in dealing with the problems that brought you to this point."

"That sounds rather unappetizing. And protocol, you say? I thought we were done with that. I thought you were going to be thinking for yourself."

"Protocol may dictate it, but I do agree. It has been shown to help."

"Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't."

"Can't hurt to try, right?"

"What happens to you if I come back?"

"I get to take you to the hospital, then fill out a shitload of paperwork, and then talk to a crisis counselor of my own to make sure I'm still mentally stable."

"Seriously? They make you talk to a shrink?"

"Seriously. Talking actually helps. I've been in a couple of, um, sticky situations, and as I talked about it with other people who had gone through the same, it helped me see things in a more realistic light and eased the mental and emotional burden."

"My parents always said that only losers, and really narcissistic people, needed talk therapy. But you don't seem like either one."

"Parents usually think they know what's best for their children, and children tend to take on the beliefs of their parents, but they aren't always right. And then the child has to take matters into their own hands."

"I know. I did."

"I don't know if I'd say suicide is taking matters into your own hands. I mean, it is in that you get to control your own death, but it isn't, because they still have enough control over you to make you want to."

"You're starting to say sensible things again."

"The crisis negotiator is here. He's coming this way."

"I told you, send him away. I am not interested. You pushed yourself into my contemplations of death, and there's only room for one. And he'll just waltz in and take all the credit when I decide to come back."

"You said when, not if."

"I told you from the beginning, this isn't the right bridge. I just need some time before I put myself into other people's hands again, even if those hands are genuinely trying to help, which I still doubt."

"I know of some good people. Some genuine ones. There's one at the hospital downtown. It's not the nearest one with a psych ward, which would be protocol, but I'll do it if you come over."

"I suppose that's the best deal I'm going to get, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid it's the best I can offer, especially since my superiors are here."

"Fine. I'll come back."

"Can I offer you a hand? You said you were weak."

"If the height doesn't freak you out, yes. You may offer me a hand." He walked over to her, and leaned slightly over the edge, reaching out a hand. She stood carefully up, holding on to the trusses for support, and took his hand when it was within reach. With a surprising amount of strength, he lifted her back onto the bridge. "I'm going with you," she said. "No matter what."

"No matter what," he agreed. They walked past the open-mouthed crisis negotiator and the fire truck that had arrived with him.

A firefighter stopped them. "She should go in the rig. It's protocol."

"No," she said. "He offered me a ride to the hospital, and I accepted. I'm going with him. End of story."

The firefighter looked at the officer. "No," he echoed. "We're going to City Memorial. We made a bargain. It's got the better program. You may follow along if you think it's necessary." The firefighter stepped back, like he had just encountered a strong force field emanating from the two of them.

"We'll do that," was all he said.

The girl and the police officer got into the police officer's car, and no one dared to stop them after that. I have a feeling that the stack of paperwork he mentioned earlier just got a whole lot higher, but also that you can't argue with results and then is why everyone let the two of them pass, protocol or not. I waited for the other cars to melt away into the nighttime traffic before emerging from my hiding place in the shadows. I don't know if I'll ever know what happened to them, whether he'll just go back to handing out traffic violations or if they'll put him to use in an area where he obviously has natural talent, if she'll get better or find the perfect bridge next week to jump from. What I do know is this. She has a point. People often don't care enough about each other before it's too late. We try to put each other into little boxes with labels on them. As I walk home, I make a vow. I'd find my voice again, and I'd hold on to it this time. I'd use it to live her way, where people do care about each other and don't try to label. I'd use it to ask, "How are you?" and really mean it. And maybe the next person I encounter who is in trouble, I'd be able to help them. I'd reach out, I'd overstep boundaries. I would be the person who cared. I would fix my own problems, I would fight and win against this social anxiety, and then I would help others: with voice, with touch, and with the little things that showed I cared.


End file.
